1732 c/o Emmie Rae


I am ripe and ready to fall

You are the nest of roots in my rotten spring
Decay my pleasured limbs in Paris
In Paris where the pleasure is sacred and hot

In a churchyard we ate through miles of frost
Grimacing at the sky, grimacing at our fingers touching
Secretly under blankets, inside shrubs and jacket pockets

There is a damp wall that reminds me of you
Separating us from fields and fields of tiny seeds growing larger
Millions of baby saplings, crisp bright green against our tongues

We inhale deeply, squinting, spread our legs and hope they take us somewhere

Where the pottery is soft and delicate
Where you draw blood drops on blades of grass

Inside my teeth I feel you aching
Where my plump wrist rests gently on your mouth

Devil’s milk from nights we spent together
A small room wedged between a thousand others

My tangled hair in your lap
My wet tangled face and hair and hands and fingers in my mouth

Swim haphazardly across a lagoon where the water is moulded and furry and the temperature rises with the tide

Pretend you can’t hear people laughing
Pretend you can’t hear the fires and wolf whistling
Pretend you can’t hear the water boiling and people sighing

Take a rest between my knees where it is wet and hot, take a rest where there is silence and the hairs on the back of our necks stand up, where you are happy to be damp and alive in the middle of a field somewhere, looking up at the reflection of everything